


Time to Think

by McNinjaWings



Category: Furi (Video Game)
Genre: 'cause most of the others are kinda dead, Character Study, Drabbles, Light Angst, Muteness, OCs are just there to flesh out the world, Post-Canon, What's proofreading, also nothing really happens, just me exploring headcanons via character thought
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-11-28 05:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McNinjaWings/pseuds/McNinjaWings
Summary: Freedom is bittersweet; he's silenced the force telling him to doom an entire planet, but he has no home. Not yet, at least.A lone drone ponders how he has changed over the course of his now-failed mission, and what's to come.A collection of related scenarios, not in chronological order (nor sticking to after the game). Gaps will be filled and headcanons explored.





	1. Hello World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After war, comes reflection.

He had time to think.

He had time to reflect.

He was in no rush to be free, not anymore; his quest was finished. The true sky shone above him, not the regulated environments of his prison. No more fighting. He could rest.

He had time to think.

He had time to reflect.

 

It was different, spending his day simply looking back on what could've been. He was one to keep moving forward, that was how he was programmed; the past couldn't be changed, it was not wise to spend all your time trying to do so. But perhaps it was that previous sentiment that made him dedicate his time to analyzing what he'd just finished doing-- another act of rebellion to a Star that was nothing but debris at this point. A rebellion in the name of freedom, from everyone and everything.

Even if he spent that mission working as nothing but a pawn for the purple rabbit.

 

The Voice was still an enigma to him, but in a way, were they so different? The human’s mission was selfish, perhaps in the same way that the drone's was-- selfish for escaping the prison even if it meant danger- or death, if he'd returned to the Star placated -selfish for destroying his master on the notion of truly being free.

But then again, that was his programming speaking. To those that knew on this free world, he'd done something selfless, far beyond what he was supposed to do. He was meant to be the End, the destroyer of their world, but he'd saved them.

To those that didn't know, he was still the threat, the one that could raze cities and swallow the world in his decay and would never be killed by any of their weapons.

So what was he, truly?

He didn't know.

The only one who seemed to have an idea of his nature was the Voice-- it always came back to him. He was the most prominent figure in his mind, being the only non-hostile figure that he encountered on his fight to be free. The human seemed to know a lot about him, enough to make his rash decisions, but whatever insight he had was not shared. Perhaps that was all part of the plan.

How ironic that one who spoke so much hid imperative information.

How ironic, he felt, that he'd dubbed his jailbreak partner with the name of something he never used. Of course, he could vocalize; he tried not to, but a few grunts and groans had escaped him throughout his trials. As for proper language-- he never needed to speak. After all, he was just a Rider, a drone for the mothership, a pawn that received orders and carried them out. He had no reason to verbalize anything back to the Star, for he could just upload data directly and in a far more efficient manner. Speech was unneeded, and for the most part, he still held that belief.

Even now that he was free, there was nobody to talk to; not long after returning to the Free World, he'd quarantined himself away from the others due to the evident decay he caused, despite how much he'd like to study these humans. And so he had no reason to speak. For the longest time, his voice went unused. He never used it in his time as a Rider, he never used it in his time in the prison, and he wouldn't be using it while he still roamed this planet. He was alone.

There was no need to have a voice.

And yet, all the humans he'd encountered seemed to use that as their primary method of communication to him, even if that communication was screaming in pain or fear as he slaughtered those around him. His first landing was something he was detached from, an experience solely remembered in data points and timestamps; but somewhere down the line, he stopped only caring for the data. Part of it was emotional, and once this realization came forth, it was nearly impossible to silence it again.

When he first landed, he hadn't stopped to look at their faces, to watch their actions except to form an idea of the native species in his report. He hadn't cared-- he wasn't supposed to. He wasn't allowed to. But after the shocks, after the utter decimation of his memory and the spasms and the _pain_ , there was a crack. A splinter in his programming.

The Chain, whether he knew it or not, had started it all. The Rider's change from a mindless drone to something a bit more. And each Jailer after that only drove a wedge into the rift, deeper and deeper as one after the other stood to face him.

 

For his captor, his tormentor, it was rage. Revenge. Anger. Bloodlust. These feelings, normally faint flickers that passed with time, consumed his mind; where normally he recorded notes on his opponents to adapt to future encounters, they were drowned out by those screaming emotions, the boiling desire to reciprocate the feeling of helplessness and terror that the masked man had pounded into him for years.

After their encounter, the drone refused to think on what had happened; his memories, so deeply intertwined with the more computerized notes, only brought another onset of feverish malevolence, which he'd quickly decided would inhibit his capability to fight what laid ahead. It was in the past. He didn't need to reflect.

 

For the Strap, an alien like him, it was pity. He'd felt nothing while they fought, the emotional burst from the first guardian receding the second that terror was killed. But the poor… woman, for lack of a better term to use, seemed so angry. Like he had been before he'd stepped into her arena. An all-consuming rage, yet hers never ended; she was stuck in a perpetual outburst, ready to claw and fry anyone and anything that got close. As their fight drew to an end, he left the prison documenting her movements, analyzing her as a subject-- and concluded with a single, needlessly unprofessional note that she could be at peace, now. He felt bad that she'd been tormented for so long, longer than him. Perhaps if he'd been in there any longer, he would've been reduced to the same husk of an entity.

He'd deleted the note.

 

The Line hadn't brought much on his own, but his words lingered on afterwards; this one knew much as well, but seemed intent on hiding what he had seen, intent on hiding the knowledge that the drone lost. He'd found himself repeating the vague hints and senseless metaphors in his head, mulling over what they meant-- but could come up with nothing. He didn't understand. He didn't know.

He had half a mind to delete that data as well, but knew it was irrational to get rid of something just because it unnerved him. He kept it, begrudgingly.

 

The Scale, well, it shed another light onto the decay he seeped; his aura, the deconstruction field around him that served to allow easy sample collection, in his case, or for easy raw resource gathering, in a large-scale operation like the planet's assimilation. It was effective for its job, but he never paid any mind to the effects of only partial exposure. It was going to be consumed anyways-- the assimilation would make sure of it. But they would suffer in the time until then. Flesh melting, toxic black residue sending fire through what veins remained, air polluted in their own lungs.

He didn't realize all of this immediately, for he'd even forgotten about the decay his mere presence caused-- the prison was resistant to the effects.

 

The Hand had taken his own toll on his mental state, but only after their battle had concluded; at first, he was consumed by anger. This man has captured him, left him to be tormented by a tri-masked man for all eternity. He was the one who turned his short mission into a long one. He was angry, a feeling that the Voice had carefully cultivated until it bloomed into his unrelenting desire to _kill_. At first, the presence of a small, undeveloped human- _child_ , he corrected himself -merely confused him; he had walked into the dome expecting his oppressor, and only stared at the face of a timid specimen-- and promptly forgetting him with a simple registration of ‘ _not my opponent_ ’ flitting through his mind once the heavily armored figure passed through the grasses to block his path.

And after his blade had plunged through the warrior's chest, he stared at the house that held the likely sniveling child, feeling that this fighter had no intent to torment him. The Hand was completing his own duty, his mission-- to protect his home. To keep the people of the world safe.

…

He was right, what was he fighting for?

 

The Song brought hesitation; she was when he almost cracked. The previous fights had been in quick succession, his burning desire to be free spurring him onward even before his wounds had fully regenerated. He was starting to tire here, actually taking a moment once passing through the gate to sit down and rest. The anger had dissolved, his analytical half wrestling control once more. He had a duty to complete- _but his brain had been fried too many times, what was it again?_ -and he needed to leave. These humans were simply there, and they were in the way. And they'd die if they refused to let him pass.

At first, the Song didn't seem threatening, so he’d refrained from drawing his weapon. She wanted peace, he wanted freedom; but the two could never coexist. She wanted him to stay trapped in his cage, cut off from the world with the only company being her and the ghosts of his wrongdoings. It was a lovely place, but a voice, the Voice told him they needed to go. His goal, the only goal he had, he couldn’t lose sight of; what was a computer with no program to execute?

But no matter how much of him said to kill, the drone, torn from the previous fights, twitched in hesitation. The mission of _freedom_ almost dislodged entirely from its place as his directive-- he didn't want to kill her.

All he was doing was causing more pain.And that's all he'll do.

Forever.

And ever.

His nature of being was one of destruction, death, a heartless machine designed to kill for the extended existence of another heartless machine. It was wrong to continue down such a path. He had to turn around, or he'd destroy himself with guilt from the knowledge that these weren't just lives. They were people.

And in a small attempt at self-defense, he closed those emotions, just for a second. Living as mindless was better than knowing right from wrong. He couldn't be hurt if there was nothing there to hurt.

His hands brought one more end.

 

The Burst brought fear. She was not one he felt much emotion towards, if perhaps because she seemed there for fun-- or that he had smothered his emotions a bit too far and had yet to recover them. Not that he needed them this fight, as the elusive violet woman posed no hard questions. But afterwards, he was unsettled by how coldly he'd killed her. There wasn't even any reasoning that he needed to beat her for his goals; she was just a tally mark on a list. It wasn't even anger, at this point, nor wanting to be free.

The Voice had given him a goal, and he latched onto it. He had an objective. He was going to carry it out, no matter the toll.

He was just a machine.

He was supposed to just be a machine.

So why was he suddenly so unsure of his actions?

 

The Edge brought insight into humanity, and a revelation.

Humans had passions, and would work endless hours to complete their goal. They would train, and take pride in their craft, dedicating themselves to one thing. Humans were a prideful sort, it seemed. But that didn't make them vain- at least, not all of them -it made them happier. It made them stronger. It made them… whole.

And he realized all of this when the swordsman injured him far worse than any of the others. The gash across his chest was not fatal, but it was serious; his systems rerouted from consciousness to healing, his mind slipping into a void while both synthetic and organic material were sewn back together. He'd awoken not to being dragged back to his cell, but to a slightly impatient face.

Whatever words were spoken were muddled in his haze, but he understood the intention. It was… Encouragement. To do better. This human had dedicated his life and soul to become the best fighter he could, and he was encouraging an alien soldier to put some effort into it, almost as if his previous attempt was nothing but a heartless spar session.

The Stranger had underestimated this one. The others were an obstacle.

He was a threat.

He'd wake up on the ground too many times to count, but not once was he ever taken back to his cell. By the end, maybe he'd grown to appreciate the man, learned a few things, but that was only replaced by sorrow as he, too fell by his blade.

 

The Beat was a child, in his eyes. Undeveloped. Weak. Naive. Her bullets didn't sting, for most of them passed right by him; but her words were her main weapon. The Chain tried to intimidate him. The Song tried to reason with him. This one begged and pleaded with him, knocking loose the emotions he'd been so intent on keeping in line.

But he had been led into a trap, her final weapon marked as a danger to his wellbeing-- the Voice was right, this thing could kill him. _Him_.

He'd taken the blast, but not at full force; nonetheless, his body strained to keep moving, and he manually had to keep himself from losing consciousness. He was mentally battered and tired, and he was so close to freedom-- _just kill her, the gate's right there_ , he told himself, coming down to strike a killing blow.

The blade struck her, but she skittered away with nothing but a simple slash through her shoulder. He'd been much worse off than he realized, but not so bad that he could easily end this child's life. He was so focused on his goal. He was so _close_.

 _The Jailer is the key; kill them, and you'll be free_.

 

The Free World was exactly as he remembered and nothing at all like he was expecting.

It was bright, far brighter than the artificial prisons, his eyes taking a second to adjust. Fields of actual, wild grass coated the ground, grown naturally and not planted there by a careful hand. Fresh wind crossed his face, bringing the scent of saltwater. The local fauna chirped in the distance, almost musically. A blue sky spread endlessly above him, far different than the closed illusion of his prison.The Stranger stared out across the horizon, breathing it all in; but his first step brought a reminder.

He was here to destroy.

The Voice, no longer needing his help, disappeared with a few choice words. Decisions, choices. But which one was there to make?

…

What was he fighting for?

 

The drone wandered a bit, almost in a daze, eyes catching the vast blue in the distance and moving towards it on autopilot; he’d achieved his mission, right? He fought for his freedom. He was here, feet in the black soil, no more foes to cut down. But no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t check off that goal-- there was something else.

Before he knew it, his  legs had brought him passing through an arch on the path, and the distant blue was now much, much closer. And as he approached, he could see a familiar staff, sitting abandoned in the sand. And giggles from somewhere not too distant. He wasn’t alone here, but he knew who he was in the company of.

The purple rabbit reappeared, this time his tone eerily solemn; the smaller human- _CHILD_ , he corrected himself -that had skipped past just seconds earlier was of his creation, and the truth behind the plan was out. The Stranger felt the now-familiar feeling of anger and the not-so-familiar feelings of confusion and disappointment; he'd done this all simply to see his child once more. He'd let the world's greatest fighters die because he wanted to see his child. He'd let the entire planet die simply because he wanted to see his child. Even for just a minute. This man was selfish, desperate, maddened-- he was the End, yet the purpose of his freeing was to reunite a family. But in a way, the drone understood. The Voice had a life but had been cut from it, and he’d even said it himself;

_There's a thin line between love and madness._

That was far more true that the Stranger had originally realized, now that he was aware of the implications behind the words. These humans… were flawed, but they made their decisions to the best of their ability. Poor decisions, but decisions nonetheless; they were free to make those choices.

They were… free.

And the soft squeeze the grown human gave to the child’s hand, the way his lips were drawn tight-- even his gaze, hidden behind the ruby eyes of the mask, stared at him with an intensity that the one of no words could pick up on; he was afraid. Afraid of the End that he’d brought to the world, afraid of what comes next.

Afraid he hadn’t done the right thing.

_We all have to decide what’s worth fighting for._

His toes curled into the black sand, remaining for a minute after the rabbit led his child away. He had a decision to make. The launch tower stood like an ominous totem in the near distance, and with hesitation, he turned back to make his way there.

 _Decide_.

His flight suit awaited him, familiar and foreign; even something such as this, he’d forgotten about. But muscle memory helped him along, for he had been in this suit countless times. And soon enough, he was flying, far past the planet’s atmosphere.

 _Decide_.

He was greeted with the Star’s closest to friendliness, but he knew it was simply a program to emulate a sense of familial bonding. Another way to keep Riders loyal. This was their only home, the only place they were welcome.

 _Decide_.

As he was supposed to, he connected to the ship’s systems, uploading the report he'd started so long ago. And it was up to him to choose the fate of the planet.

 _Decide_.

It wasn't supposed to be a choice; the planet was always assimilated. No Rider ever says no, for there is no planet that counts as unfit. He was supposed to nod and agree, and return back to this cold, lifeless home until he was to be sent on another mission. A life devoid of meaning, for all involved-- except those who die an unfair death at their hands.

 _What am I fighting for_?

He was never given choices. He was never given a voice. His mission was freedom, but was he free when there was no life to live? He would exist, yes, but only as a means of prolonging his master's survival. Survival, that was their purpose, and they were ruthlessly efficient in fulfilling it. But there was little else they provided. He had a heart, even if it was an amalgamation of cold programming-- he wanted more than computers and death. Survival wasn't living.

And he had the chance to _live_.

Perhaps he really was corrupted by this planet.

 

 _I'm fighting for me_.

 

The Star could say nothing that would stop him. The words stung in his newfound bleeding heart, but they only spurred him on further; this was not his home, not anymore. Backing down would only result in his destruction. It was him, or the Star.

And the Star stood no chance.

 

His second trip down to earth was not one of dispassionate analyzing; he remembered when he first flew in, staring at the green and blue from among the stars and only caring about the report he was supposed to bring in. Now, with any and all missions completed, he could appreciate the planet for what it was, not for what resources it contained. He could appreciate the people of this world for showing him what he'd been missing.

He had no ulterior motives, no plans, nothing. A blank slate, as expansive as the planet he was approaching. For once, he finally felt peace; he has gotten what he needed. He was free. This planet was free.

And it was… beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an updated and altered version of 'Emotional Machine' (which has taken a spot as the second chapter for archiving purposes). I wasn't happy with the pacing and content of the ending, so I fleshed it out; numerous other places have gotten touch-ups and fixes so it sounds less like my train of thought and more like a proper sequence.


	2. Emotional Machines (legacy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the original version of "Hello World", so it's mostly the same content, but worse. I'm leaving this here because there were some changes to how I view Rider as a character, and his personality and feelings have been updated in the new version accordingly.

He had time to think.

He had time to reflect.

He was in no rush to be free, not anymore; his quest was finished. The true sky shone above him, not the regulated environments of his prison. No more fighting. He could rest.

He had time to think.

He had time to reflect.

He had time to muse.

 

How ironic, he felt, that his jailbreak partner held the name of something he never used. Of course, he could vocalize; he tried not to, but a few grunts and groans had escaped him throughout his trials. As for proper language-- he never needed to speak. After all, he was just a Rider, a drone for the mothership, a pawn that received orders and carried them out. He had no reason to verbalize anything back to the Star, for he could just upload data directly and in a far more efficient manner. Speech was unneeded, and for the most part, he still held that belief.

Even now that he was free, there was nobody to talk to; not long after returning to the Free World, he'd quarantined himself away from the others due to the evident decay he caused, despite how much he'd like to study these humans. And so he had no reason to speak. For the longest time, his voice went unused. He never used it in his time as a Rider, he never used it in his time in the prison, and he wouldn't be using it while he still roamed this planet. He was alone.

There was no need to have a voice.

And yet, all the humans he'd encountered seemed to use that as their primary method of communication to him, even if that communication was screaming in pain or fear as he slaughtered those around him. His first landing was something he was detached from, an experience solely remembered in data points and timestamps; but somewhere down the line, he stopped only caring for the data. Part of it was emotional, and once this realization came forth, it was nearly impossible to silence it again.

When he first landed, he hadn't stopped to look at their faces, to watch their actions except to form an idea of the native species in his report. But after the shocks, after the utter decimation of his memory and the spasms and the _pain,_ there was a crack. A splinter in his programming.

 

The Chain, whether he knew it or not, had started it all. The Rider's change from a mindless drone to something a bit more.

 

For his captor, his tormentor, it was rage. Revenge. Anger. Bloodlust. These feelings, normally faint flickers, consumed his mind to the point that the hard data had only recorded those screaming emotions, drowning out strategy and study of his opponent.

He only wanted the Chain to taste his form of retribution.

Even thinking back on their brutal encounter caused those feelings to spike, taking a moment for him to settle them down again.

 

For the Strap, it was pity. He'd felt nothing while they fought, the emotional burst from the first guardian receding the second that terror was killed. But the poor… woman, for lack of a better term to use, seemed so _angry_. Like he had been. An all-consuming rage, yet hers never ended; she was stuck in a perpetual outburst, ready to claw and fry anyone and anything that got close. As their fight drew to an end, he left the prison documenting her movements, analyzing her as a subject-- and concluded with a single, needlessly unprofessional note that she could be at peace, now. He felt bad that she'd been tormented for so long, longer than him.

He'd deleted the note.

 

The Line hadn't brought much on his own, but his words lingered on afterwards; he found himself repeating them in his head, mulling over what he'd meant. He had half a mind to delete that data as well, but knew it was irrational to get rid of something just because it unnerved him.

 

The Scale, well, it shed another light onto the decay he seeped; his aura, the deconstruction field around him that served to allow easy sample collection, in his case, or for easy raw resource gathering, in a large-scale operation like the planet's assimilation. It was effective for its job, but he never paid any mind to the effects of only partial exposure. It was going to be consumed anyways-- the assimilation would make sure of it. But they would suffer in the time until then.

He didn't realize all of this immediately, for he'd even forgotten about the decay his mere presence caused.

 

The Hand had taken his own toll on his mental state, but only after their battle had concluded; at first, he was consumed by anger. This man has captured him, left him to be tormented by a tri-masked man for all eternity. He was the one who turned his short mission into a long one. He was angry, a feeling that the Voice had carefully cultivated until it bloomed into his unrelenting desire to _kill_. At first, the small, undeveloped human- _child,_ he corrected himself -merely confused him; he had walked into the dome expecting his oppressor, and only stared at the face of a timid specimen.

_Not my opponent._

And that was all he thought of the kid, promptly forgetting him once the heavily armored figure passed through the grasses to block his path.

And after his blade had plunged through the warrior's chest, he stared at the house that held the likely sniveling child, feeling that this fighter didn't care about hurting him. He was just protecting the lives of his people.

 

The Song was when he almost cracked. The previous fights had been in quick succession, his burning desire to be free spurring him onward even before his wounds had fully regenerated. He was starting to tire here, actually taking a moment once passing through the gate to sit down and rest. The anger had dissolved, his analytical half wrestling control once more. He had a duty to complete- but his brain had been fried too many times, what was it again? -and he needed to leave. These humans were simply there, and they were in the way. And they'd die if they refused to let him pass.

At first, the Song didn't seem threatening, so he refrained from drawing his weapon. She wanted peace, he wanted freedom, but the two could never coexist. She wanted him to stay trapped in his fancy cage, cut off from the world with the only company being her and the ghosts of his wrongdoings.

It was a lovely place, but a voice, the Voice told him they needed to go. She didn't want him tortured and suffering.

He didn't want to kill her, his emotions getting in the way of his methodical, simple thoughts-- she was in his way. Kill her.

But for a moment, they interrupted, fighting and nearly winning against his ruthless programming. All he was doing was causing more pain. And that's all he'll do.

Forever.

And ever.

His nature of being was one of destruction, death, a heartless machine designed to kill for the extended existence of another heartless machine. It was wrong to continue down such a path. He had to turn around, or he'd destroy himself with guilt from the knowledge that these weren't just lives. They were people.

And in a small attempt at self-defense, he closed those emotions, just for a second. Living as mindless was better than knowing right from wrong. He couldn't be hurt if there was nothing there to hurt.

The Song died.

 

The Burst was not one he felt much emotion towards, if perhaps because she seemed there for fun-- or that he had smothered his emotions a bit too far and had yet to recover them. Not that he needed them this fight, as the elusive violet woman posed no hard questions. But afterwards, he was unsettled by how coldly he'd killed her. There wasn't even any reasoning that he needed to beat her for his goals; she was just a tally mark on a list. It wasn't even anger, at this point, nor wanting to be free.

The Voice had given him a goal, and he latched onto it. He had an objective. He was going to carry it out, no matter the toll.

 

The Edge brought insight into humanity, and a revelation.

Humans had passions, and would work endless hours to complete their goal. They would train, and take pride in their craft, dedicating themselves to one thing. Humans were a prideful sort, it seemed. But that didn't make them vain- at least, not all of them -it made them happier. It made them stronger. It made them… whole.

And he realized all of this when the swordsman injured him far worse than any of the others. The gash across his chest was not fatal, but it was serious; his systems rerouted from consciousness to healing, his mind slipping into a void while both synthetic and organic material were sewn back together. He'd awoken not to being dragged back to his cell, but to a slightly impatient face.

Whatever words were spoken were muddled in his haze, but he understood the intention. It was… Encouragement. To do better. This human had dedicated his life and soul to become the best fighter he could, and he was encouraging an alien soldier to put some effort into it, almost as if his previous attempt was nothing but a heartless spar session.

The Stranger had underestimated this one. The others were an obstacle.

He was a threat.

He'd wake up on the ground too many times to count, but not once was he ever taken back to his cell. By the end, maybe he'd grown to appreciate the man, learned a few things, but that was only replaced by sorrow as he, too fell by his blade.

 

The Beat was a child, in his eyes. Undeveloped. Weak. Naive. Her bullets didn't sting, for most of them passed right by him; but her words were her main weapon. The Chain tried to intimidate him. The Song tried to reason with him. This one begged and pleaded with him, knocking loose the emotions he'd been so intent on keeping in line.

But he had been led into a trap, her final weapon marked as a danger to his wellbeing-- the Voice was right, this thing could kill him. _Him_.

He'd taken the blast, but not at full force; nonetheless, his body strained to keep moving, and he manually had to keep himself from losing consciousness. He was mentally battered and tired, and he was so close to freedom-- _just kill her, the gate's right there,_ he told himself, coming down to strike a killing blow.

The blade struck her, but she skittered away with nothing but a simple slash through her shoulder.

He'd been much worse off than he realized, but not so bad that he could easily end this child's life. He was so focused on his goal.

_The Jailer is the key; kill them, and you'll be free._

 

The Free World was exactly as he remembered and nothing at all like he was expecting.

It was bright, far brighter than the artificial prisons, fields of actual, wild grass not planted there by a careful hand. Fresh wind crossed his face. The local fauna chirped in the distance. The Stranger stared out across the horizon, breathing it all in; but his first step brought a reminder.

He was here to destroy.

The Voice, no longer needing his help, disappeared with a few choice words. Decisions. What was there to make?

 

He'd wandered a bit, almost in a daze, eyes catching the vast blue in the distance and moving to look. And as he approached, he could see a familiar staff, sitting abandoned in the sand. And giggles from somewhere not too distant.

The purple rabbit reappeared, this time his tone eerily solemn; he'd done this all simply to see his child once more. He'd let the world's greatest fighters die because he wanted to see his child. He'd let the entire planet die because he wanted to see his child. For just a minute. This knowledge brought anger, but also pity; he was desperate, maddened, even. He had a life but had been cut from it, and that distance made him do questionable things.

_There's a thin line between love and madness._

That was far more true that the Rider had originally realized. And his decision was made. These humans, despite being so flawed, deserved a better fate than extinction. He wouldn't be able to live with these lives perishing.

Reinterfacing with the Mothership only reinforced his true, original mission, and how much he despised it. He had a heart, even if it was twisted from the same cold programming that the Star held within itself; survival wasn't living.

And he had the chance to _live_.

Perhaps he really was corrupted by this planet.

 

His second trip down to earth was not one of dispassionate analyzing; he could appreciate the planet for what it was, not for what resources it contained.

And it was… beautiful.


	3. New Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to settle into a new, foreign world.

Settling into this planet was a whole new challenge, however. He could not approach human civilization, for both his deconstruction field and his reputation; he was a known threat, and they feared him. Which was understandable, he'd coldly slaughtered anyone who tried to interrupt his surveying.

And then countless more when they tried to first kill him.

And then even more when they captured him.

He was infamously brutal, a monster, a creature only bent on destruction. He had been warned about endlessly, and could only assume his capture called for celebration; an understandable response. For the most part, he doubted his presence would be appreciated.

 

He needed somewhere that was uninhabited, a place where he wouldn't do damage. And though the launch tower was a perfect place to shelter him, it was ultimately barren when it came to anything to do besides sit there. He'd at least need some sort of hand tool to correct his deconstruction field, but besides what he'd brought in, there was nothing, not even something he could repurpose.

The Rider still stopped by though, to pick up his coat and weapons he'd left behind on his trip to the Star. He didn't feel safe without his saber, and his coat, well, it was his only possession. It was something he could call his.

 

He didn't have more than a few days of fuel left, but he set out streaking across the sky, intent on making sure his feet never touched the ground more than a few times.

 

There were a few things he noticed while he traveled, most only adding to his already confused opinion on the native sapient race.

Humans were needlessly sporadic with the placement of their settlements, and the apparent technological progression held no consistency; some would be sprawling technological marvels- for them, at least. He'd seen more advanced -and others didn't appear to have electricity. Most were somewhere in between, or had a mix. Half built from wood and heated by fire, the other half stone and metal and shining bright with neon-edged features.

Humans were also wasteful with their space, leaving large buildings abandoned to sit a mile or two away from the main settlement, not to be repurposed or deconstructed to build something else.

The Rider couldn't complain, though. That would be a perfect place for him to stay.

 

His eyes landed on an old manufacturing plant, abandoned years ago by the look of it. It sat on its own in a small valley, with the nearest town only a smattering of equally aged buildings down a winding road. Which also didn't seem to have anyone there.

Perfect.

 

The Rider made a circle around the area, scanning for anything of note before descending into the concrete lot, thrusters blowing loose dust as he inched closer to the ground. For a few moments, he drifted across the barren slab, eyes scanning his surroundings with the well-rehearsed motions of an experienced scouter. A few plants had taken to root, which he avoided as he patrolled; a small animal skittered across his path and darted into an overgrown crevice.

After a minute of wandering outside, making notes of any and all entrances, he powered down the flight suit, leaving it just inside a large, empty doorframe. The ground blackened as he stepped off but he purposefully avoided paying attention to the damage, choosing instead to focus on the space he'd chosen to inhabit.

Most of whatever had been inside was gone, leaving a vast, empty shell of brick masonry and glass windows high above. A few small rooms and boxes of wasted materials and by-products littered corners, apparently not valued enough to take along with everything else. Destroyed light fixtures hung from the ceiling, some entirely missing and others shattered and bent, and a number of the windows had cracks from weather wear. The faint scent of burnt machinery still lingered, and coupled with the sad light filtering through the dusty windows, only solidified the desolate lifelessness of the building.

The drone didn't pay much mind to that, though. It was only fitting for his own nature.

 

He spent the next moments simply drifting around the building, listlessly making notes and committing the area to memory;

_That wall is structurally unsound._

_That window rattles in the breeze_.

_This section of flooring is tilted_.

The footfalls gradually slowed to a crawl, stopping when he realized he was simply going in circles, both physically and mentally. He was simply repeating a loop-- observe surroundings, form conclusions, store information for later. Move, rinse, repeat. The same loop that occurred when he was sent to a new planet to scout, except this time there wasn't anyone to report that information back to. There wasn't a point where he'd deem the information enough to break the loop and continue on with the next set of plans.

He had no idea what to do. 

He wasn't used to this. He wasn't used to being the one making decisions. It was an odd predicament, one caused by his own inability to plan ahead-- though what was one to expect from someone who had never thought for himself? Formulating plans was not something he had any experience in; combat was the closest he could get, but this wasn't a matter of which way to stab something to make it stop moving. He'd always had orders, instructions to follow, and when those were done, he'd receive more; even during his escape, he was merely acting on the will of the Voice.

Even destroying his master was the wish of his companion, and likely even the entire human race.

But he was alone now. Where was he going to start? His body was capable of running without food or water for indefinitely, and sleep was a luxury, not a need; he had no dreams to achieve, for he had gotten both his revenge and his freedom.

Perhaps he could try to reach the masked man that had freed him, but he'd disappeared very quickly after reaching the planet's surface with no intention on keeping contact.

Perhaps he could find someone willing to help him, but he had no way to communicate.

Perhaps he could study the flora and fauna of the world, but he couldn't do without destroying them in the process.

Perhaps... he was at a loss.

 

His eyes landed on the dark line he was etching into the floor, perfectly straight trailing down the length of the building.

Oh, right.

The deconstruction field. It wasn't supposed to still be on, but it appeared that his time in the prison had broken it-- the repeated shocks seemed to keep causing more and more trouble for him. He could manually disable it, with a bit of effort and the right tools, but otherwise not impossible. It would allow him to explore more of the world without ruining it.

…

The Rider straightened up in realization, the concept nearly passing right through his head. Well there, he had a goal. A short one, but it was something to do. Something to work on. Something he's decided for himself.

It was a first step, at least.


	4. Static

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes all one can do is take it.

…

He was awake again.

_Time since last period of consciousness: Approximately twenty minutes._

_Location: Target planet’s atmosphere. Coordinates unknown._

_Physical integrity: Mild damage. Healing._

_Mental integrity: Disoriented. Stabilizing._

_Reinstating primary objective: Error. Retrying..._

_Reinstating primary objective: Return to Mothership._

His fingers twitched inside their restraints, unable to bend more than a few millimeters thanks to the tightly strung cords suspending them in place. He’d say they were bound tightly, but he could no longer feel them to make sure; perhaps it was because of the restricted circulation, perhaps it was because they were the first to receive the daily torture in the form of electricity, perhaps it was because they weren’t healing fast enough under those conditions to maintain proper function and sensation.

The machine he was trapped in began to hum.

His jaw instinctively clenched at the noise; he'd already been here long enough to know that it was the sign of an oncoming jolt of electricity through his still fatigued body. The walls would faintly hum, and then the cylinders his arms were suspended in would as well, the whole process taking ten seconds and always finishing on mark with his systems scrambled and his flesh trying to heal.

His body spasmed under the electric current, feeling an eternity pass in the second it took to stop.

The pause between the jolts weren't always uniform; sometimes it'd be mere seconds, the machine not even powering down before the next one came. Sometimes minutes would stretch by, ever silent except for the ambient thunder and lightning outside he'd decided was more of a set piece than a proper weather phenomenon. Sometimes his captor would be there to add to the punishment, shallow insults only remembered by the sharp pain his strikes would bring. Sometimes his captor left him alone with his thoughts and irregular shocks, until the masked man became bored of not slamming his fists into a target that could always heal from the wounds.

The machine began to hum again.

He stiffened reflexively, knowing full well it wouldn't help lessen the pain in the slightest.

 

 

…

He was awake again.

_Time since last period of consciousness: Unknown._

_Location: Target planet’s atmosphere. Coordinates unknown._

_Physical integrity: Moderate damage. Healing._

_Mental integrity: Disoriented. Attempting to stabilize… Error._

_I WANT OUT._

_Reinstating primary objective: Error. Retrying…_

_Reinstating primary objective: Error. Retrying..._

_Reinstating primary objective: Return to Mothership._

Not even consciously at this point, he shifted in his restraints, head hanging limply to stare at the small raised pedestal he was confined to. His foot scraped on the panel, a minor twitch of a motion, but it was enough to alert his captor. Heavy footsteps thudded around from behind him, seemingly taking delight in the unease that each step brought his prisoner. The Chain knew full well what his captive expected from him; physical insults, verbal blows, a combination of the two with a small dash of a high-voltage current running down the length of his body. Three simple tools, but he had no shortage of ways to get under the alien's skin, to keep him wary of what this new day would bring. They had days, weeks, years to dance between the gradual destruction of his mental state and the repeated damage to his physical one. He would break, for no living being could withstand such torment forever.

And he was going to be the one to watch it happen.

 

“When you first got here, they said you were a machine,” the Chain spoke, coming to stand right before his prisoner. When the restrained man didn't look up, he manually grasped his chin, forcing the unnatural blue eyes to look at him while he spoke.

“Something built to serve a purpose, to be disposed of once it's done.”

An armored fist was raised as a threat to the blank expression he was receiving.

“They said that you were cold.”

There was a sharp blow to the prisoner's cheek, hard enough to knock it out of the Chain’s grasp without him lessening it first.

“Unfeeling.”

Another blow, this time to the opposite side. His vision swam for a moment before regaining focus.

“Uncaring.”

An uppercut slammed into his jaw from below, sending his gaze skyward before his head limply lolled back to where it had been when it started.

“But I know better, and they do too. After all, what would the be the point of torturing something that couldn't feel pain?”

Once again, the Chain grabbed his jaw, which now featured a trail of blood that had leaked from his mouth from a wound already closed.

“I see you squirm when I enter the room, I watch as you brace yourself for the pain, I relish in that look of uncertainty when you've gone maybe too long without punishment and are just dying for me to come in and treat you.” His head is dropped without any additional violence, and the Chain meanders away, casually flipping something on the cell's control panel as the masks twirl around his face.

The machine began to hum.

“It doesn't matter that you won't even give me a scream.” As was second nature, his eyes closed in acceptance of what was to come, his body already prepared to heal the singed flesh once the electricity was gone.

…

…

The machine kept humming.

“Your face tells me more than enough,” a smile as cruel as the one crossing his mask ran deep in his captor's voice, clearly taking some sort of perverted pleasure in the confused reaction of his prisoner.

Twenty seconds. The shock still didn't come.

“Thank your creator for me, weapon-” even without a clear view of the Chain's face, the laughter grew ever louder without so much as a chuckle from the hulking figure, “-since they were just so kind enough to me to give you the capability of fear.” The shock still didn't come immediately, even after he heard the mass of armor shift as if to activate the contraption. He was being taunted, but he still refused to open his eyes to look around.

The machine kept humming.

For once, his captor was silent, but his smile could be felt all the same.

It was as he slowly exhaled, a breath spanning more than a minute that the Chain decided it was time. He reacted far violently than he would've expected, air turned sulfurous in his throat and muscles ripping themselves apart as the voltage coursed through each and every one of them.

And the electricity came again, far faster than it should've, far before he'd even recovered enough to identify that time had actually passed between shocks. He could smell his flesh now, clearer than ever, seared on the inside and outside alike.

And maybe his captor just wanted to see his body fall victim to the bouts of electricity, uncontrollably fighting the restraints, for a third shock passed through his body; and perhaps a fourth one did as well, but he was not alive to experience it.

 

 

…

He was awake again.

_Time since last period of consciousness: Unknown._

_Location: Unknown._

_Physical integrity: Severe damage. Healing impaired. Recuperation period required._

_Mental integrity: Disoriented. Discontent. ANGRY. Attempting to stabilize… Error._

_NOTHING BUT STATIC_

_Reinstating primary objective: Error. Retrying…_

_Reinstating primary objective: Error. Retrying…_

_Reinstating primary objective: Error. Retrying…_

_Reinstating primary objective: Error. Retrying…_

“You were a weapon, a bringer of death.”

The machine began to hum.

“And now, you're nothing.” Another shock, like so many before. He didn't know how many had come before. He didn't know how long he'd been here. He couldn't remember. He was supposed to have flawless memory, a data storage far beyond what these humans were capable of, but there was nothing but corrupted fragments and--

_RAGE_

_Reinstating primary objective: Error. Retrying…_

“I will keep on killing you.”

He was struck.

“Again.” He was struck.

“And again.”

The pain was registered among the rest that still flooded his body, fizzling in and out of static from an overexerted nervous system to the crisp, fresh pain of his body routinely healing the damage the best it could. The fluctuations were nauseating, the pain made him

_ANGRY_

_Reinstating primary objective: Error. Retrying…_

“I am your future; an eternity of slow, painful deaths.”

He didn't grace his assailant with a response, taking the blow in silence as the world was blotted out around him.

 

_“I hear thunder, pitter patter.”_

Blue eyes blinked open.

_“Time to wake up.”_

 

“I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here, with you.” There wasn't anyone else in the room, not beyond his captor lying about where he's staying. Not that there was time to look around, for as soon as he'd been able to awaken, his body drained of consciousness for a moment more, relishing in even a few seconds to heal.

“Shake your head, nod your head, it's time to go.” This time his eyes opened to something obstructing the door; a face-- no, a mask. It wasn't moving as the words were whispered, and he was sure that humans hadn't developed any method of interpersonal non-verbal communication in the span of his imprisonment. A pair of bulging red eyes hovered in his view, though the effort of keeping his head up to meet the gaze was a little too much. His head slid back down. The man didn't touch him. Not like the Chain. This mask didn't hurt him.

_REVENGE_

_Reinstating primary objective: Error. Retrying…_

“See what they did to you? Pull yourself together. Get out of prison.”

The restraints around his fingers loosened, the only brief warning that his arms were soon to follow suit.

There was a small click and he dropped unceremoniously to the ground, limply sliding down the ramp to stop at the feet of his unnamed savior. He laid there, partially due to simply desiring rest to allow his body to properly recover. The other partial…

_Reinstating primary objective: Error._

_Accepting new primary objective._

His gaze raised to the weapon, his weapon, laid out before him.

“Kill the Jailer.”

His fingers buzzed with static, the first feeling in them for a long time. He'd clenched his fists instinctively when he first tumbled down but now he could feel the skin of palm against his fingertips. His burnt, still-healing palms, still healing hands.

_RETRIBUTION_

“Fight for your freedom.”

The white noise of shattered thoughts and

_FURY_

uncontrolled emotions settled into a somewhat coherent state, expression flickering through several different displays before landing on… dedication.

He grabbed his saber.

Spurred by the boiling violence that itched to be unleashed, he forced himself to stand, using the blade as a crutch to return to his feet. He hadn't put his weight on them in years, it'd been so long. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. To plant his heels into the ground, to not have his entire body strung up by his arms.

He was far steadier than he should've been in his state.

“The Jailer is the key; kill him, and you'll be free.”

_New primary objective: FREEDOM_


	5. Pitter Patter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rain washes much away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been extremely out of it the past few months and decided this little scrap of a chapter that I wrote a while back could serve as a re-introduction to posting chapters again. Hopefully I find more time to write in the future, I want to get back to working on this.

He wasn't one that had much of an opinion, never had been; neutrality was the only option he had been taught to consider, though time saw that teaching ebbing away. Perhaps for better, perhaps for worse; time would be the deciding factor.

Though, it only took a few minutes for the Rider to come to the conclusion that he didn't like being wet.

Well, rather, he didn't like being wet from _rain,_ specifically. Being soaked from the top down, droplets of water flinging themselves into his eyes, his hair waterlogged and heavy instead of its usual weightless, fluffy self.

It was mostly just about the hair, though. He could deal with the other stuff just fine; he'd been in rain before. Just not sporting a cloud of his own affixed to his skull.

 

Spending some time outside was a choice of many insignificant reasons, the greatest of which being to watch the weather change; dawn had seen clear skies but noon had left them with a thick cloud cover. He was no stranger to precipitation, of course; other planets had clouds, and he'd done similar studies for them-- this planet was no different, though now his observations were no longer just statistics and data. Personal notions and peeves were just as valid, and he was actually… _excited_ to rediscover all that he knew and add his own thoughts to them. 

The Star had disapproved of “unneeded commentary”, anything to point towards a bias, and so he'd forced himself to simply detach from the situation, place, thing-- and he'd missed out on so much because of that. Maybe the rolling, diverse landscape was enrapturing, maybe this unidentified flora did have beautiful patterns and coloration. Maybe he didn't like cold, and maybe he'd like the rain more _if it didn't cause his hair to stick to his face_. …Maybe he'd like shorter hair- it was the standard hairstyle for Riders for a reason -but he was already quite attached to the mane he'd grown out. It was his. It was different from what he was supposed to do. A reminder of his rebellion, of his freedom.

Which was currently clinging to his coat, face, and back, all the while running frigid water down his spine.

The Rider shot his signature glare at the clouds.

The sky's response was another raindrop in his eye.

He probably deserved it.

 

Despite his sour mood, he stood outside for a few minutes more, simply staring out at the somber landscape surrounding him. The world seemed grey, like a mirror reflecting the clouds; grasses were sodden and soaked, features in the distance were overlaid with a monotone curtain as the rain continued to pour down and mist hovered over the surface of the earth. 

How fitting, then, that even his hands were draining of color; the vibrant but drying smear of his own blood across his fingers washed away in the flood, leaving behind the more subdued tan of his skin. Wash away the grime from his actions not too long earlier-- that was the second reason he'd come outside.

The abandoned factory he'd claimed was not one of modern advancement, and any high-quality handtools were gone or had never entered the building in the first place. It had taken a while of searching and deciding what could be of use, trying to balance the struggle to avoid destroying anything that was affected by the field and actually obtaining something he could use. In the end, he had to improvise; Riders were built for precision and awareness, but he was no surgeon.

It was done, at least. Even if he'd made a small mess, it didn't matter; the gore healed in minutes and he no longer destroyed the world around him simply by standing too close. His goal checked and completed within a day of conception, something so minor yet affecting so much. It was finally back under his control, and he'd watched as his footsteps no longer threaded black across the ground.

 

He still found himself avoiding the plants that littered the lot, though.

 

The third reason…

The rain was familiar. Even if it brought distasteful memories, those of pain and anger, he clung to what little he knew. No more fighting, no more death, no more orders, no more _home_. Far out of his element. He was in control, but he was hesitating to use that power.

Why? Was there something wrong with him?

_Starting self diagnostic_.

This type of unease was new to him, and so far, he didn't like it. He was used to wariness, to waiting for what came next from an opponent, to being on guard to watch for an ambush; this was something far more… subtle. Something that lurked in the dusty, unused corners of his mind.

_Self diagnostic complete. No abnormalities found_.

Why?

…

He didn't know.

…

He needed another goal. Something to focus his attention on or he'd probably tear himself apart. What was there to do, what would he do? What could he do? 

Explore, perhaps. He hadn't stepped foot out of the old factory since he arrived, to keep the decay contained until he fixed it. Now he could wander, if he so wished; maybe study the equally abandoned town that was nearby. Even if he had nobody to report that information to, it'd still be a routine to which he could dedicate himself. Another plan-- hopefully this one didn't pass quite as quickly as the previous.

…

He’d go after the rain passed. His collar had long filled with water.

  


 

 

 

The Rider spent the rest of the storm realizing just how absorbent his hair was, wringing water out of it for what seemed like hours. His coat had been removed to dry; his hair would only continue to soak it if he hadn't. Shame he couldn't avoid the same with the rest of his body, as despite being indoors now, he still tracked water across the floor. An unfathomable amount of water. How was his hair still wet?

Yeah. No.

He _definitely_ decided that he didn't like rain.


End file.
